


Strife n' Ladders

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cock Piercing, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, M/M, Masturbation, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3594651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being eighteen means you're old enough to do lots of things. Join the military, buy porn, go into bars, smoke cigarettes, get tattooed.</p><p>And get your dick pierced.</p><p>It's the first thing you do, of course. Seven needles, straight through the underside of your dick and replaced with shiny steel barbells, one just above the other. It's called a Jacob's Ladder, and you look damn fine with it, if you may say so. Granted, the guy who puts on your new gear tells you that you'll need to keep your hand off your junk for awhile. Eight weeks, at the least. Two months. Twelve weeks would be better, but eight would be good.</p><p>No problem, you think. Two months. That'll go by in a snap. All you have to do is make sure your brother doesn't find out about them. He's a jerk about things like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strife n' Ladders

you haven't touched your dick in two months.

Admittedly, it's because you'd manned up and seen a guy about having him shove seven needles through it on your 18th birthday, and an infected piercing is nothing to laugh at. Still, you're pretty sure that if you don't do something soon, you're going to lose your fucking mind. The guy had told you eight to twelve weeks. Well, today marked the end of week eight, and the barest brush of air across the crotch of your pants is becoming more than you can bear.

If you don't jack off soon, you're going to fucking die.

You're in the bathroom now, because you figured the best way to go about this was to make sure you were plenty clean first. Less chance of shit going wrong if you've scrubbed away all your dirty, nasty, I-am-an-adult-male germs first. And you're standing in front of the mirror, because you want to get a good look at them, and this is the first time you've dared have an erection long enough to examine them since you got them done—erections that are left unattended are fucking _awful_ , literally the _worst_ , and you've studiously avoided them whenever possible (something easier said than done; you didn't realize how many porn blogs you followed until three days after you'd gotten your ladder done and by then, it was too late), but now, you're coaxing yourself to hardness, so you can admire the pretty silver balls adorning the underside of your shaft.

It doesn't take long. Two months without jerking it? You're pretty sure an invisible fairy could wink in your general direction and you'd pop a raging boner. The barest touch of your fingers to your shaft and your cock is more than willing to spring to attention. You can't help the involuntary little shiver that dances through your hips at the feeling. God, you'd missed this. You’d taken for granted how much you jacked off 'til you couldn't anymore. It's something you'd thought of idly in the days leading up to your birthday, how shitty it was gonna be having to not touch yourself—but how bad could it be, you'd said to yourself. Oh, the naivete of past you makes you weep.

The way the skin pulls around your barbells has your throat convulsing, and you dig your teeth into the heel of your palm in an effort to keep yourself quiet. The last thing you need right now is your bro coming in here and catching you playing with yourself. You can't imagine what he'd do, but you're pretty sure it wouldn't be pleasant, because your bro is basically king asshole of asshole mountain, lord to all other assholes, may all other assholes bow before him. He is the master asshole, and you don’t want to challenge him right now.

Of course, your bro's idea of being an asshole might be something as simple as putting his hand around your cock and telling you to be quiet. You're thinking about that now, as you curl your fingers about the base of your shaft, thinking about the way his leather would feel against your skin, the way he'd snicker against your ear. It's a nice thought, and you rock forward into (his) your hand. When you're watching yourself in the mirror, it's harder to pretend that it's Bro's fingers around you, so you close your eyes.

Because God hates you, that’s exactly when Bro decides to pound on the door, and both your heart and your dick jump a little. (Okay, who are you kidding, they leap fifteen feet into the air and let out a mortified shriek of terror. You’d probably shit your pants if you weren't so resolute and impenetrable. Lesser men than you have fallen victim to the startling horrors of me-time interruptions, with even less than righteous pounding at the door to blame. Ain't no shame in being caught off-guard once in a while, right?)

“Get your hand outta your pants and meet me on the roof.”

If you shout back, your voice is going to do an Olympic-quality swan dive back into puberty with the cracks in it, and there’s no avoiding stepping on that shit; your poor mother will be crippled for life. So, cheeks burning, you obey, stealthily doing up your zipper. Hey, at least he knocked. He could have just barged in like he does sometimes, or ninja’d his way into the shower or something. It’s not like Bro actually _knows_ you’d been feeling yourself up. He’s just being an ass like usual. 

You hesitate when he doesn't immediately pound again. Maybe he’s already gone. Maybe this is your blessing of the day from whatever gods recline all-mighty and all-powerful and all-cheerful over the world, or maybe you’re just really lucky. Whatever. Regardless, it doesn't sound like Bro is still there, which means you’re clear to palm yourself again—keep back that groan, just in case— _god_ you need to get off, just another _minute_ , you've done this before, you can do it again, fast and messy (and it’ll be worth the extra helping of beatdown on the roof for lagging)—

“Dave! _Now_.”

Fuck, okay. You smack an irritated hand against the sink, flipping the water on freezing. Way to wreck a guy’s alone time, Bro. Dude doesn't even _know_. This strife is going to kill you, and Bro’s gonna be left wondering what the fuck happened to give you a boner hard enough to cut through fuckin' granite. Was it something he said? (You plunge your hands under the stream and hiss. Glorious, ice-cold, boner-killing water.) Or, god forbid, maybe he’ll think it’s just for him—although, no, as soon as the coroner pulls down your pants they’ll all get it—Bro gives the door another warning knock, although the appropriate term is probably “siege-drumming”, and you curse under your breath, switching off the water and giving your crotch a cursory glance. Okay. Boner somewhat averted.

Time for a strife.

* * *

You’re so fucked.

Bro’s royally fucking peeved, and it’s all you can do to defend against lightning fast-blows to keep him from literally taking it out of your ass. Worth the extra helping of smackdown, you said. Done it before, you can do it again, you said. 

You’re _so fucked_.

You’re pretty sure that the bruises he’s brought up on your left side are going to make it difficult to walk for weeks, and you've yet to even land a glancing blow on him. Making him wait today of all days was apparently the worst mistake you could make, because he’s been pulling out the stops—he hasn't even brought Cal in. He’s that pissed. Wants to deal with you himself.

You angle your sword, whisper a silent prayer and aim for the spot in his guard that isn't open _yet_ , but will be when he feints to the side in response to your feint, and drop low, to duck under the blow that is being suggested by the way his left elbow just twitched, and—

His sword is at your throat, and yours glances off his hip, easily deflected. Grunting, you lean back as much as you can, feeling your Adam’s apple bob beneath the sharp blade. “What’s the matter, Dave?” His face is a picture of smug confidence. “Your feet ain't movin' the way they’re s’posed to. Mad that I interrupted your morning spank n’ yank?”

You can feel your ears burning. “That wasn't what I was doing,” you lie, wishing your pokerface didn't somehow manage to betray you to your brother every single fucking time.

His hand is between your legs, on your erection. Fucking with you, because he’s Bro. You’re so surprised you can’t find the words to protest, and when he squeezes you through your jeans, you choke on a moan. Normally, you would've just shoved him off and told him he was sick, because that’s always been part of this stupid dance. Today, though, it’s been too long since you've been touched by anybody that you can’t bring yourself to push him away, and you’re flushed so red that your collar might as well be on fire. 

He notices. Of _course_ he notices. His fingers are picking out each barbell, even through the denim of your pants. How does he even _do_ that, notice things so small so quick. “The fuck’s this?” 

Your reaction, by all rights, should be defensive. At least. Actually, he’s feeling you up mid-strife—that’s an offensive offense right the fuck there. “None of your goddamn business,” you hiss, finally twisting your hips, bucking in a useless attempt to throw off his exploratory hand. It’s half-hearted, at best, and you curse yourself silently for your depraved wants.

His hand doesn't move, and he reaches out, pushing firmly on your sternum. Your shoulders hit the rooftop with a thud, and he’s got your wrists snapped into cuffs before you even inhale. Mother _fucker_. You forgot he even had the goddamn things anymore. (Three years and chump change, he’d cuffed your left wrist to the cooling unit and left you with your non-dominant hand and a broken katana as your only defense against a flashstepping ninja master bent on making your life bruised hell.) “You just get these done?”

“The fuck do you care.” Your heart’s hammering faster than you’d like for it to be. He’d always left at least one wrist free before, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for whatever new element to the game this is adding. What, does he expect you to throw him off of you by the sheer desperation of your hard dick?

It isn't until you feel the hot summer air against the fabric of your boxers that you realize he’s opened your jeans. You couldn't move even if you wanted to. (You don’t. God, you really, _really_ don’t.) “Gotta make sure you’re healing cleanly.” 

When you try and move your arms, you realize he’s got his hand pinned against the metal chain linking the cuffs, holding your hands down. While you’re busy realizing that, he’s shifting, and in an instant, he’s resting his weight on your thighs, with your jeans halfway to your knees. You should be fighting back, struggling, but all you can manage is an embarrassing squeak when he pulls your cock out of your boxers. “Wh-what the f _uuuck_ —” 

The word becomes a groan when his thumb runs over the piercings, counting out the barbells first on one side, then the other. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven; his thumbnail chimes gently against each rounded ball’s end in turn. “Impressive, lil' man.” His thumb does the same motion on the opposite side, and your breath is coming in shallow pants by the time he’s done tallying the metal in your skin. “You get them all done at once?” 

God, you hate how fucking impassive he is. You’re hard and aching, and you can feel the way your skin pulls around each individual bar, the tiny twinges his searching fingers send humming through your stiff cock. Fortunately, it doesn't seem like he expects you to talk, because when you open your mouth to try and articulate a response, he wraps his hand around your dick and squeezes with a burning slowness that makes you choke. “They look good on you,” he informs you, sliding his palm over your skin. The way the piercings shift under your skin would be enough to make you groan, _again_ ; the fact that it’s _Bro_ , however, is what makes your hips move, and he laughs when you buck into his hand. “Desperate little fuck, aren't you?”

You can’t protest, so you close your eyes, turning your face against your shoulder. Almost immediately, his fingers are digging into your jaw. “Look at me,” he growls, and his hand releases your cock, making you gasp. “ _Look at me_ , you lil' shit.” Your eyes flutter back open just in time to see him peeling off his glove with his teeth and licking his palm. The sight of it makes your breath catch, and you swallow, your eyes wide as you stare up at him. Your shades, you realize, are gone. You don’t know when he took them, nor do you care. 

With your eyes focused on his face, he grins - smirks, really - and slowly, deliberately slides his hand back around your cock, taking the time to massage his thumb over the ridges your new piercings make in your skin. “Is _this_ why you were takin’ so long in the bathroom this morning?” Again, he doesn't wait for an answer, slicking his damp hand over your stiff dick without so much as a warning. “Betcha didn't get to finish, didja? Unless you’re jus' _that_ insatiable.” 

You’re panting, at this point, and it’s becoming harder and harder to keep your eyes focused on him. The minute your lids flutter, he stops, and you swear. “Bro, come _on_ —”

“Ain't gonna be me comin' on anything, kid,” he responds, shifting so that he’s once again got the chain linking your wrists trapped under his palm. When you whip your eyes back to him, he smirks again, resuming the idle stroking of your cock in response. “Gonna be you, makin' a big ol' mess. Right here. Assumin' you can maintain enough discipline to keep your eyes open, of course.”

You mean to snarl at him, but instead you moan, because he’s squeezing at your shaft. True to his word, the longer you keep your eyes on him, the faster he goes, and you’re aware after a few moments that your eyes are burning almost as hot as your cheeks. This is too much, the humiliation of being made to stare at your brother’s bemused face while he jerks you off, and when the first tear traces its way down the side of your cheek, he slows— _again_ — which nearly makes you weep, curses spilling from your lips with such swiftness that you’re garbling the words. “The hell, y'fuckin' sadist, for _fuck’s sake_ —”

“Poor Davey,” he coos, dipping his head down. The sensation of his tongue drawing across your cheek is one that makes you shudder, though whether it’s in revulsion or arousal, you can’t tell. At this point, the entirety of your body feels like one throbbing nerve, and your words become a whimper when he presses a kiss to the corner of your eye. “All worked up n’ not allowed to cum.”

It’s too much. The very suggestion that he might not let you get off triggers a paroxysm of hungry, senseless motion, your hips rutting against his still palm and back arching up off the hot, pebbled tar of the rooftop, feet drumming against it. The only thing that remains still is your arms, though it’s not for lack of trying; there’ll be marks tomorrow around your wrists, from the strain of fighting against the metal cuffs he’s keeping so mercilessly pinned. His hand remains still, but he hasn't stopped touching you, which means your sloppy thrusts are at least bringing a small measure of relief. Not enough, and soon, you’re openly weeping. Through your tears of desperation, you can see that he’s laughing, and you hate him for it, but that doesn't make you want it any less. 

Abruptly, he tightens his hand around your aching shaft, and you choke on the sound that tries to escape you. His face is inches from yours, and when he speaks, you can feel the heat from his breath. “Beg.”

“Please,” you gasp in immediate response, shuddering when you’re rewarded with a long stroke of your cock. It’s encouraging, and you continue, words coming in a breathless rush. “Please, god, for fuck’s sake, _please_ , Bro, lemme - I’ll do anything, fuck, fuck, _fuckfuckfuck—_ ”

Between your panted words, your brother is jacking you off with increasing speed, and by the time you've dissolved into groaning repetition, you’re close, too close, so close that even if he stopped you wouldn't be able to hold back. You’re lucky—even when your eyes close, he doesn't, and when he whispers the words _come for me_ in your ear you’re helpless to do anything but obey, crying out as your cock twitches and spurts beneath his attentive hand, spraying thick ropes of cum over your taut stomach and making a mess of his hand in the process. It’s the most intense thing you've ever experienced, with your fresh piercings making your skin pull in ways that are so hot that it almost hurts and your bro’s hand being the one bringing you to orgasm, and it goes on so long that you’re pretty sure you actually, honestly see stars. 

When your cock—finally!—starts to soften, Bro gives it a slap that’s probably meant to be playful but that actually makes you yelp. “Good job, kid.” The words are spoken in a tone so ingratiatingly patronizing that you wish you could slap him, but you can’t find the energy to speak, let alone move. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he wipes his hand on your shirt and stands, your chest heaving. You’re dimly aware that your hands are still cuffed, that the tar of the rooftop is still burning-hot under your bare ass. Yeah, there’s gonna be marks tomorrow. “I’m gonna lock the door,” he informs you, picking up both your sword and his own. “Maybe next time you’ll take care of your problems before you let them interfere with your strife.” There’s a pause. “And if you get in before it’s dark, maybe I’ll do more than jus' jerk your meat. Put those piercings to use.” 

The door bangs shut, leaving you to contend with the fact that you've got to make it down from the roof with your hands cuffed together and your skin sticky with your own jizz. As you struggle to sit up, you wonder if he’s serious. It doesn't matter if he is or not—the suggestion of it has you moving, struggling to pull your pants up as you sit up on the rooftop, staring at the setting sun. You hate your brother sometimes, but if you play your cards right, maybe you can make _him_ scream. The idea has you smiling as you stand. 

Your name is Dave Strider, and getting your dick pierced has turned out a lot better than you anticipated.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to those who beta'd for me. And happy birthday to my favorite crayon.


End file.
